


A Scout Is Clean

by strixa



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: Anal Sex, As in it’s never explicitly given but also never asked for, Demon Doors, Dubious Situation-Based Consent, Extremely Cursed Rarepair Challenge, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sleep Paralysis, Transdimensional Portals, because why would I ask my friends to read this for me it is so very wrong?, if you all hate me now it’s okay I understand, like a gray area here please PLEASE tread carefully here, unbeta’d, you know the normal stuff for this fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:35:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24409681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strixa/pseuds/strixa
Summary: At Alex Reagan’s behest, John Uvela heads to Urraca Mesa to check the last two totems.He makes two unwelcome discoveries.
Relationships: Simon Reese/John Uvela
Kudos: 4





	A Scout Is Clean

This was a mistake. He knew it was now.

When he’d set off with the next day’s sunrise, John Uvela, full-grown Boy Scout, fired by curiosity and early morning coffee, didn’t think that he’d see much difference in the Urraca Mesa site, not besides the normal vicissitudes of animals and their appetites. But one of the benefits of having Alex Reagan of Pacific Northwest Stories out at Urraca Mesa meant a boost in visits. Not just Scout troops wanted in, now it was specifically ghost story fans and sage-waving alleged demon hunters wanting a peek at the totems. His jaw had begun to hurt from all the clenched smiles he’d had to make. But John had been happy to check for Ms Reagan.

_ It’s going to be fine,  _ he told himself, squinting into the early morning sun,  _ I’m going to go look, and it’s going to be fine, just as it has been for thousands of years. _

Just as certain, a little voice dropped into his mind:  _ What if it’s not? _

Almost as though someone had said it into his left ear. He glanced to the side, just in time to catch the golden gaze of a mountain lion. She—  _ why do I think it’s a she? _ — turned away.

_ Where you going, Johnny? _

“Whoa!” He yanked the wheel, hard, but knocked the directional sign post clean off its base anyway.

Good thing he was always prepared, Boy Scout as he was. This repair was going to eat up his morning, he knew, and he’d only be able to jury-rig a solution; they’d need to replace the thing.

The sun was sagging in the sky by the time he reached the mesa, but there was plenty of light to see the last of the totems down. One was smashed to nearly nothing. Not the damage from falling objects or the general wear of time. These looked like someone had driven a truck into them, more than once.

What could he do but take pictures?

“This is bad,” John heard himself saying, as he snapped pictures— all angles of the totems, ticking off their directions so he could match the photo metadata to which direction. “This is very, very,  _ very _ bad.” He filled out the incident report under the sun’s fading light. No point in trying to send them to the main office: a signal out here was impossible.

In the midst of collecting his materials to return, he looked up and saw the left back tire of the ATV, flat. Maybe he’d cut it on the frame when he hit that sign post?

It wasn’t until the Maglite burned out while he was trying to patch the tire that he turned to the now-night sky and screamed in frustration, “WHAT THE HELL!?”

_ It’ll be better in the morning _ , John didn’t think, so much as the thought came to him.

“No fucking shit,” John muttered, tossing his tools back into the ATV’s locker with a satisfying set of crunches.  _ Clean,  _ he reminded himself,  _ A Scout keeps his body and mind fit and clean. He goes around with those who believe in living by these same ideals. _

The wind answered. He didn’t think it was laughing, but he couldn’t help the feeling that something  _ was. _

This was going to be a long night.

He’d built only a small fire, only bothering to keep it up sometimes, because if he was going to be out here, well, he was going to enjoy the view of the stars, especially on a night light this one— dark of the moon, with the last wave of this year’s Perseids overhead.  _ A Scout is cheerful _ , John recited to himself, a litany, as tails of meteors dazzled overhead.  _ A Scout is brave. A Scout is reverent. _

He didn’t think he’d sleep. Because of that, when he awoke, it took him some time to figure out what was happening.

John knew about sleep paralysis— when he’d started catching up with Alex Reagan’s show, there had been a letter to the Strand Institute, and Dr. Strand had replied to it. It had sounded terrifying at the time: to lie there, unable to move, sometimes even gasp. Even worse was what some others had experienced, the certainty, unfounded, that someone malevolent was in the same place as you,  _ watching _ you in your agony.

He just hadn’t known that he’d be incredibly, painfully hard while he had it. 

_ Fuck! _ he wanted to scream, but he couldn’t open his mouth, couldn’t clench his hands, couldn’t even make his lungs expand or his eyes move, while his pulse raced to a taut thread and his cock strained at his zipper.

_ Johnny... _ a voice crooned in his mind, a sing-song tone, somehow sinking into what felt like the iron band around his chest, a weight pressing against him, against the screaming of his brain:  _ You can’t breathe you’re going to die you can’t breathe you’re going to die you can’t  _ to the feeling of that weight, now  _ a weight, _ now dragging up his torso, chafing deliciously against where he was most wanting, riding up his shirt, warm where it touched him. It was not the warmth of the sun or firelight, but the warmth of frantic movement, a million vibrations in each direction, like flies trapped in a drum. 

“Johnny…” a tongue, slick and warm with the same screeching thrum catches against his throat, the crest of his chin, before brushing over his mouth. John’s eyes gaze deep into black eyes— not the black of a normal, dark-eyed person, but  _ black _ all through the iris, pupil, sclera, holes in a white face, a boy’s face, a young man’s face. 

“Come out, come out wherever you are…” the man breathes into John’s mouth, damp, buzzing, and hot, and something in John’s lungs finally catch at it, and he gasps, clutching with his hands at the whoever,  _ what _ ever has settled on him, arching up into that throbbing heat with a groan.

“Ssssshhhhh…” comes the white-faced man’s voice, like a cold and wet cloth against his forehead, and John finds his mouth engulfed in a kiss, much like sand finds itself engulfed by the tide. He can feel the warm, velvety strength of a tongue fill his mouth, literally taking his breath away, while his hands clench at what he can only imagine is the hips or waist of whoever has found him in this state. 

John practically sobs in relief when he hears the soft  _ pop _ on the button of his pants. He looks down, and is rewarded with the sight of a stark white, youthful face, same all-black eyes, mouth now dragged into a leer as wide and sharp as a crack of lightning.

“Oh, God…” John moans, and is rewarded with a soft laugh, a ripple of darkness, as clothing is parted and he is exposed to the night air for only a moment before the strange man’s tongue catches at the underside of his leaking cock, tracing around the head, lapping at the precum found there. “Oh God, please…”

The man’s mouth settles around the head of John’s cock before he takes all of John in his mouth, all the way up to the hilt. John screams for a reply, clenching the earth in his hands and trying to thrust up into that wet, pulsing heat, but two buzzing hands press his hips back down into the ground, and that strange man’s slick and talented mouth rides up and down his length.

Just when John finds himself at the brink, the man takes his mouth away. John looks down to see the strange man crawling up him—  _ wait, how is he naked? Is he naked?— _ pause to position himself. One of the strange, white man’s hand reach behind him for a moment, a movement John doesn’t understand, until he feels the other’s hand, yielding clench of a ring of muscle, and watches the boy gasp as he slowly sinks himself down, riding John’s cock. 

John can make no other sound than something between a screech and a whine at first. With another clench, the man pulls himself up, then down, until John, finally getting the picture, graps the man’s hips and thrusts himself, over and over, up into that tight, slick heat, buzzing with want. 

The man’s gaping leer widens, his hands grasping at John’s shoulders. A shock of darkness falls over his forehead, and it takes John a second or two to realize that it may be hair. The man is cut from shadow like a paper doll; shadows wreathe his brow, shroud his form, as though he’s wearing a shadow for a bedsheet, and even his breath against John’s face feels dark even as it is sweaty.

At the back of John’s mind, behind the frantic ache of lust, there’s not so much an alarm as a constant tap—  _ the voice, where do I know— _ and he reaches out for the strange white man’s face. “Simon? Simon Reese…?” John finds he’s surprised to see Simon, still riding him, smile, turn his head, softly kiss John’s fingers, then draw John’s thumb into his mouth.

John feels Simon’s teeth close around his thumb as Simon slams himself back on John’s cock, riding him harder, faster, and John isn’t sure if the shadows sliding around Simon’s body are now shaking and thrashing along with him, wrapping around his fingers as he reaches down to stroke his own cock while he rides John to completion. John follows a few moments after, the feeling of a thousand tiny vibrations hot against his palms as his eyes roll back in his head.

_ Johnny _ ...John Uvula feels, prying at the edges of his mind, as he blinks awake, to a sunrise, a strange bite on his right thumb, and a cooling mess of come on his belly.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Finally, my Extremely Cursed Rarepair Challenge fic is up!
> 
> I’m sorry that it’s late.
> 
> I’m sorry that it’s...uh, this.
> 
> I’m just sorry in general.
> 
> If anyone needs me, I’ll be scrubbing my brain with bleach.


End file.
